


Real Love

by 221Btls



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Death, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Resurrection, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, True Love, Winglock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 19:00:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1195977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221Btls/pseuds/221Btls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock died after Mary shot him.  Could John's love could bring him back to life?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Real Love

**Author's Note:**

> Real Love is a Beatles song on the Beatles Anthology, a song written by John Lennon that was overdubbed by the surviving Beatles in 1995.

Hearing gunfire, John ran to the room Sherlock had disappeared into and knelt beside the prone body on the floor. 

“Who shot him?!  _WHO_  shot him?!” John shouted.

His eyes were drawn to the horrific sight of the bright red blood, its stain spreading against the crisp white shirt as images flashed through his mind of the many times he had seen a bullet wound.  This time was different; this time the bullet had pierced Sherlock’s body.

Christ, don’t panic, John berated himself, sucking in a deep breath to clear his head.

John snatched his mobile from his pocket and called emergency services.  Taking off his jacket, he tore his shirt off as quickly as he could, bunching it up and pressing it firmly to the wound in Sherlock’s chest.  He had to staunch the blood flow, had to stop the life from pouring out of the slender body lying on the floor. 

“Stay with me Sherlock.  Stay _with_ me.  Don’t you dare fucking die on me or I’ll never forgive you, you daft prick.  Don’t you _fucking_ dare.” 

* * *

 

The ambulance ride took three seconds.  It took three hours.  It screamed by and it played out in the slowest, slow motion John could imagine.   Every moment was amplified by the paralyzing fear Sherlock would die.   

John’s heart pounded in his chest as he watched the stillness of the face that was paler than humanly possible; a stillness that belonged to the man who had always been the very definition of ‘alive’.  Who had somehow become even more alive after the two long years he had been away; who was now living life in a full-spectrum that had previously been unknown to him.  To have come so far for nothing, not to be able to experience the world that was new to him in so many ways, was a tragedy.

“We’re losing you, Sherlock,” he said to the unconscious man as the medics used all of their training, all of their compassion to save the life of a man they had never met.  John stayed out of their way as they worked, but he desperately wished he could reach his friend. “Take my hand,” echoed through John’s brain, bringing a sorrowful half-smile to his face.  He had to make do with resting his hand on a nearby ankle, placated by the fact that he could have even the merest of physical contact. 

“Stay with me, stay with me,” John implored, the words sounding like a prayer.

* * *

 

It didn’t take as long as John thought it would; in a way, he was grateful.  To have to live too long with the hope Sherlock would survive and then to have him die, would have been crueler than he could imagine. 

The beeps on the heart monitor grew further apart, slower, until there were none at all.  The doctors left John with the body that had ceased to breathe. That had ceased to be Sherlock.

Sherlock, his best friend, was dead. The man who had brought John's life back to him was no more. 

John’s grief was so strong he could barely breathe; his lungs refused to expand enough to properly take in air. Staring at the body beneath him, he looked at the face he had followed countless times, at the mouth that somehow made ‘idiot’ sound like an endearment.  Wished he could just once more look into the eyes that had brimmed over with more life and intelligence than any one person had the right to possess.  Taking a lifeless hand in his, he lifted it to his cheek and closed his eyes.  Felt the warmth against his face he knew would too soon be gone.

A stream of tears ran down John’s cheeks unchecked; he didn’t feel them.  All he could feel was a despair he had never known, a despair so vast he didn’t think his body could hold it inside.

Fucking Christ Sherlock, Jesus fucking Christ.  The words ran in a loop through his head as he stood there, not having the presence of mind to even try to make sense of what had happened.

Lost inside his head, John was at first unaware of the large white wings that wrapped around him, embracing him in their feathery fold.  All he knew was he felt warmth and comfort that eased the gaping hole in his heart.  He could hear the wings flutter lightly, the gentle sound soothing.

Briefly he wondered if _he_ had died; certainly it was wrong to feel such peace when his best friend had just died.  He leaned into the body pressed against the back of him as arms joined the wings, holding him, giving him an anchor in his emotional storm. 

A voice whispered in his ear, deep and low, “I’m sorry, John.  I didn’t mean to leave you.  You were the best and wisest man I ever knew; my life would have had no meaning had I not met you.  I never told you, but I will tell you now.  I loved you.  I love you.”

Mesmerized by the sound of the voice, John didn’t startle until it was gone.  Gone with the embrace and the wings and the body that had held such comfort.

 _Sherlock_.  It was Sherlock’s voice that told him he loved him.  

And in that moment John knew that it was true.  Knew that no matter what Sherlock had said about sentiments and areas and caring, that he had loved John. Loved him with a passion and devotion that was as uncommon as a double rainbow.

John couldn’t hold it back any longer, couldn’t hold back the feelings he had hidden for years.  If he didn’t say the words now, he never would.

He leaned down to the face that would soon be lowered into the dark, cold soil and whispered, “It was you, Sherlock.  It was always you.” 

Laying his cheek against Sherlock’s chest he murmured a last ‘goodbye, love’, wondering how he would go on without this wondrous man in his life.   About to pick himself back up, he felt a single heartbeat.  Then another.  Soon the beats came strong and steady; the beeps from the heart monitor that was still attached to Sherlock matching the rhythm of beats in his chest.

John looked at Sherlock, saw the color start to rise in his face.

“Doctor!” he yelled.

Sherlock was alive.

He looked lovingly at the face he had for so long believed in. Pushing his fingers into the dark curls, he whispered once more.  “It will always be you.”

Watching from the doorway where she had witnessed her husband declare his love to someone other than her, Mary turned and walked silently down the hall.

**Author's Note:**

> I SO hope this worked.  
> Real Love written by John Lennon, as performed by Regina Spektor, is hauntingly beautiful.


End file.
